Cat Scratch
by Hexcraft
Summary: "Dave, look at that cat." "Leave it alone, Dirk, I swear to fucking God, don't even think about-" "FUCK GET IT OFF ME" "DIRK"


It was silent in the apartment, save for the quiet humming of the air conditioning and a few appliances. Nevermind that it was a bit messy—mostly due to the impressive assortment of weaponry lying about—since any apartment lived in by two adolescent boys and one adult male of questionable responsibility and age would be messy. Despite this, one might even call it a peaceful place, until the front door burst open and two blond teenagers wearing dark glasses rushed inside.

"Shit shit shit!" Clearly frantic, one of the blonds pulled the other farther into the apartment and towards the living room. He was shirtless, said shirt instead being wrapped around the other teen's hands, and was holding the fabric there tightly as they made their way to the futon in the living room and he had his brother sit. "Leave that on I'll be right back!"

He rushed out, heading straight for the bathroom and all the medical supplies they kept there in case strifing got out of hand.

When he returned, the other blond was still sitting on the futon, hands wrapped up in his white and red shirt.

"Your shirt's gonna stain."

"I don't give a royal rat's ass about the shirt, Dirk. I fucking told you to leave the damn thing alone." His tone was scolding as he sat, dumping the medical supplies on the cushion between them, and began to carefully unwrap the shirt from his brother's hands, pausing partway through to take his shades off and toss them onto the coffee table so he could see what he was doing more clearly. Red eyes intent, he freed Dirk's hands from the fabric and tossed the soiled clothing aside.

"Fuck."

They looked even worse than before—that god damn monster of a cat had done some serious damage to the blond's hands. Deep punctures from teeth on his arm and hands still bled, and there were long, vicious-looking scratches covering nearly every inch of the rest of his hands and wrists. Dried blood covered the skin that wasn't damaged, making it look like Dirk had gotten in a fight with something much larger and deadlier than an alleycat.

"I told you to leave it alone."

Sitting cross-legged on the futon and cradling his bloodied hands to his chest, Dirk glared at his brother and stuck his tongue out childishly. Dave only rolled his eyes before getting up again and going into the kitchen to fetch a rag and a bowl of warm water. That blood needed to be cleaned off before he'd be able to do anything else.

When he returned, Dirk was busy inspecting the scratches and punctures, pulling the wounds open to see how deep they were. Dave would've scolded him for it, but the spiky-haired blond obviously wasn't causing himself any more pain that he was already in, so he let it slide for now and sat on the futon once more.

"Gimme your hands."

"No."

"Dude, give me your hands."

"They're fine."

"You're bleeding like a miracle statue of the Virgin Mary on her period. Gimme your hands so I can patch you up."

The two stared at each other, both stubborn, though Dirk was bleeding and Dave was in full Mother Hen Mode in order to care for his brother. Eventually, the injured of the two sighed and held his hands out to the other.

"Fine."

"Good. Hold still."

Easier said than done. Dave's first move was to dip the rag he'd brought in the bowl of water and wipe the blood away with it. The fabric was much rougher on the torn skin than Dirk would have liked. It tugged at the loose bits, making him bite his lip rather than flinch, and made the open wounds sting like a bitch.

A glance from red eyes offered a silent apology that Dirk accepted by gritting his teeth.

When he was satisfied that the cuts, scrapes, and punctures were free of dried blood and dirt and stray bits of fur, Dave set the rag aside and picked up a fresh hand towel, as well as a bottle labelled as hydrogen peroxide. As soon as he read it, Dirk pulled his hands back protectively.

"Nope."

"Dirk," the other blond was impatient, "we have to clean them."

"No way, bro. That shit stings worse than a papercut between your fingers."

"And an infection would literally destroy the tendons in your hands to the point of having to be surgically reconstructed. Now let me disinfect them."

"I said no."

"Dude, Bro's gonna be pissed if he comes home and finds out you bled all over the futon because you wouldn't let me patch you up.

It was another battle of will over whether or not Dirk would allow the chemical to be applied to his injuries, though this one ended even more quickly than the first, and in the same fashion.

Grudgingly, he offered his hands to be methodically cleansed by his brother.

At first, the peroxide merely bubbled against his injuries—it was cold, and nothing else. Dirk actually began to relax a little and thought that maybe he'd been overreacting. That is, until Dave turned his hand over and poured the chemical onto a particularly long scratch that ran up the side of his finger.

Dave's first warning was the way Dirk's shoulders tensed, then the strained hiss his brother made just before yanking his hands back protectively. He let go rather than fight to hold on and cause the other blond even more pain, but that didn't mean he didn't scowl at Dirk disapprovingly.

"Stop being such a fucking wuss and let me clean your hands!"

"It stings!" There were actual tears pricking at his eyes and Dirk was eternally grateful to his Bro for making sure he always wore his shades so that Dave wouldn't see. The other blond may have taken his off in order to perform his sadistic medical bullshit, but Dirk had no intentions of going without his.

Impatient, Dave glared at the other boy. "That means there are germs to kill."

Hand cradled to his chest as he blew on the scratch to try to ease the pain, Dirk grimaced and rolled his eyes. "No it fucking doesn't. How would you even know that?"

"That's what Bro says."

"How does he know?"

"Because he's Bro? Just let me disinfect your hands!"

"No!"

Frustration made Dave growl and throw his hands up, though he was careful not to spill the peroxide. That stuff was supposed to kill germs, but it could damage healthy cells, too, and he didn't want it all over his hands.

"You're impossible! If you would've just left that damn cat alone then we wouldn't have to do this, but no, it was cute and you just _had_ to fucking pet the only cat on the planet that wanted to bite through your finger like it was a fucking steak and the cat'd been living off of nothing but mangy old mice for the past three years. You got yourself into this mess by fucking around with stray animals and now I have to be the one to clean it up, so pull your balls back out of wherever they're hiding and _give me your god damn hands._ " He was nearly shouting at the end, and the two blonds stared at each other once he'd fallen silent. Slowly, Dirk (mostly) relaxed and once more held his hands out to his exasperated twin.

"Sorry." Guilty for making the other boy so upset, he kept his gaze lowered as Dave huffed and began dripping the peroxide on his wounds again. It still stung, but the spiky-haired blond grit his teeth and suffered in silence. No way did he want Dave to start shouting again—he was usually pretty chill, so seeing him all riled up was disconcerting. That alone was enough to get Dirk to hold as still as he could while Dave continued to pour peroxide over his hands.

It wasn't an easy thing to manage. The cuts stung worse at the chemical than they had while being made by the cat's ferocious attacks. All the expletives he wanted to say to express his misery came out as a whining growl, and he shifted his weight in a continual effort to keep his hands as still as possible.

"There."

To Dirk's immense relief, Dave screwed the cap back onto the bottle and set it aside. The rag was dipped in the water again, and the red-eyed teen set about wiping the bubbles and drips from his brother's hands. It wasn't nearly as painful as the peroxide had been, but it was still far from comfortable.

Squinting, Dave examined the wounds closely to make sure they were all properly clean before trading the rag for a small tube of anti-bacterial/anti-biotic ointment. As gently as he was able, he began dabbing the clear gel onto Dirk's torn flesh. The spiky-haired blond watched in silence, content to be taken care of so thoroughly by his twin now that the sharp stinging had faded to a dull, albeit strong, ache. He could handle aching far better than stinging.

Dave finished with the ointment a few minutes later and tossed it aside, leaning back against the futon's armrest as he contemplated the best way to go about the bandaging process. Gauze would probably be overkill on the scratches, but he didn't trust band-aids to protect the puncture wounds. If those got infected, there wouldn't be any choice but to take the injured teen to the hospital; Dave wanted to avoid that.

Still holding his hands out to keep from getting the ointment on his clothes or the futon or anything else, Dirk looked at his brother questioningly. The red-eyed teen had been staring at his hands and chewing on his lip for over a minute. It was unusual for him to be so indecisive. "…what?"

A long breath escaped through Dave's nose. "I don't want you to get an infection. That'd suck."

"Yeah. So, what next?"

"Trying to decide if I wanna use an entire box of band-aids or wrap your hands in gauze until you look like a god damn mummy.

"Gauze'd be safer."

A few more seconds passed as Dave considered his options again, then he nodded and plucked the gauze out of the pile. Methodically, it was torn into smaller strips and wrapped around each of Dirk's fingers before the larger roll unwound and covered his hands and up his wrists to protect the scratches on his forearms. By the time Dave finished and taped the loose ends in place, not a single wound was left vulnerable.

"I look like a mummy."

"Yep."

Every ounce of frustration that'd been radiating from the red-eyed blond was gone as he calmly began gathering the leftover supplies into his arms. Dirk watched him stand up and head towards the bathroom with it, making a mental note to somehow pay Dave back for all of this.

"I'm hungry," he commented, mostly to himself as his gaze returned to his mummified hands. How was he supposed to eat? His left thumb and right forefinger both had deep puncture wounds—he couldn't even fully bend or use either digit, not to mention the bandages stiffened everything anyway. If he tried to cook and got them dirty, Dave would throw a fit the size of Jupiter. Dirk didn't even want to know what sort of awful and colorful language and analogies that would involve.

"Dave."

"Yeah?" The other blond came back from the bathroom, still drying his hands.

"I'm hungry." Finally comfortable enough to remove his shades, Dirk carefully slid them off then propped his chin on the back of the couch so he could see his twin, pulling out his best pair of puppy eyes. "Feed me."

The two stared at each other for a long moment before Dave sighed and tossed the handtowel back down the hall.

"Fine."

A grin spread over Dirk's features. "Awesome."

Rolling his eyes even though he wasn't actually annoyed—as if he wasn't going to coddle the ever-living shit out of his injured twin—Dave left the other blond to rest in the living room while he went into the kitchen to find whatever food was stashed amongst their Bro's countless shitty swords.


End file.
